


The List

by ThereBeWhalesHere



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Five Year Mission, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Old Married Couple, Romance, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeWhalesHere/pseuds/ThereBeWhalesHere
Summary: A list. Untitled. Ongoing. Of all the reasons to love him.Personal logs chronicle years of unrequited love, perhaps kept secret for too long.





	The List

**Author's Note:**

> Happy K/S Day, 2018!!! This is my very small and modest contribution to the slashiversary, as well as a big thank you for 4k followers on Tumblr! All my love to each of you!
> 
> Also, FYI this starts out sad, but it just gets painfully sugary sweet, so don't worry.

_First officer’s personal log, last updated stardate 5011.4,_ Spock’s own voice whispered from the speakers in his dark room, as Spock sat in the computer chair, fingers steepled at his lips, listening.

_A list_ , the recording continued. _Ongoing_. _Untitled_. _Presented in no particular order_. Then, quieter, slowly and with determined intention: 

_One, His ingenuity._

_Two, His determination._

_Three, The lock of hair that curls where it falls on his forehead._

_Four, How he pats his stomach exactly three times after consuming a large meal._

_Five, His laugh._

_Six, His legs crossed, ankle over knee._

_Seven, His compassion._

_Eight, Chess._

_Nine, When he smiles._ _  
_ _Nine-A, Subcategory, causes:_

  * _A joke._
  * _An interesting sample of alien flora._
  * _Good weather during a landing party._
  * _Small talk with the crew._
  * _Science lab updates._
  * _Planetary scans._
  * _Relief after crisis._
  * _Speaking together in the turbolift following our shift._
  * _Occasionally (68 instances to date) when our eyes meet across the bridge._



_Ten, His hands._

_Ten-A, Subcategory, interpersonal physical touch --_

Spock lifted his head. “Computer, cancel playback,” he said stiffly. The list, nowhere near complete, never complete, ceased playing. Silence settled again.

He had thought that he might add to the list today -- when Jim pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and Spock, recognizing the gesture, thought it might belong in his log. Another aspect of Jim Kirk that he loved. Another in an endless list of reasons he could give the emotion to no other.

But listening once again to those words, spoken quietly in his own voice out of fear of discovery … Spock felt shame. Because as he had collected these qualities over the last three years, these mannerisms, these habits and moments that coalesced to create a bieng he held in regard above all others, Spock had done so in the full knowledge that Jim could not feel this way for him.

It was illogical to continue this log. Why cause further pain wherein an abundance already existed? Why seek feeling, even as he attempted to repress it? Spock had failed to answer these questions thus far. He had a feeling -- a _feeling_ \-- that he would continue to fail.

Staring at the screen of his computer, where the open file of his personal logs contained only one entry, Spock considered deleting his list. He had an eidetic memory. He did not need the reminder. Deleting it may free him from some bond of obligation. Not the love -- nothing could free him of that, it seemed. But perhaps he could attempt to put his reasons for that love away, shove them to the back of his mind. Without a daily, auditory journal, it may be possible to forget, or at least to avoid them.

But even as his lips tried to form the words, tried to give the computer the command that would wipe his list from its memory, Spock hesitated.

“Computer, record addition to personal log,” he said, the word ‘delete’ somehow never making it to his tongue.

“Recording,” the computer said.

Spock paused for just a moment, resting his hand on the desk and thinking of earlier, on the bridge, the flutter of his heartbeat. “One-hundred eighty-five, When he feels frustration, and pinches his nose,” he said softly. “End recording.”

“Recording ended,” the computer replied, and Spock nodded, his solitary, painful task complete. He would meditate again tonight, try to purge it all and emerge unsuccessful, as he always did. Jim Kirk was the only variable in his life he had never once been able to control. Love, the only emotion he could never suppress.

 

* * *

 

_Captain’s personal log, stardate 4853.7_ , Jim’s recorded voice practically rattled the computer with its volume, seeming to echo in the small room, and Jim rushed back to his desk to turn down the speaker, conscious -- always conscious -- of the wall between his quarters and Spock’s, and his first officer’s far superior hearing.

_I don’t know how much longer I can do this,_ Jim’s voice continued, much quieter now, and Jim straightened, pacing back into the center of the empty room as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You and me both,” he muttered.

_I’ve never been the type to keep a lid on things_ , the log read out. _Not unless some situation necessitates it. Is it necessary? I keep asking myself that question. Every day I ask myself that question. Is it necessary to keep my feelings to myself when sometimes he looks at me like --_

“Computer, play next entry,” Jim interrupted, running his hands through his hair and gripping the back of his head tight, taking a long breath as the next recording started.

_Captain’s personal log, stardate 4961.3. I’m fully aware of his responsibilities. In fact, I’m more familiar with them than most, after that ritual on Vulcan last year. He has an obligation to his family, to his people. And I have an obligation to this ship._ My _people. Our people. There isn’t room for love in either of our lives. And if there were, he wouldn’t feel it for me._

“Computer, play next entry,” Jim said quietly, pacing back to his bed, back to his closet, back to his desk.

_Captain’s personal log, stardate 5011.4. I have few secrets but this. And I’m the only one I can tell. So, Jim, now you know. I love him, and I am afraid -- terrified. Because I think I always will._

“Computer, end playback,” Jim said, and the speaker shut off to leave him in the suffocating silence of his own, lonely room. This was torture. He played these logs over and over again, added to them too often to be healthy. And they all said the same thing.

What was that old belief? Completing the same task over and over again, always expecting a different outcome, stood as a sure sign of madness. He always expected keeping a log might help him make sense of this, help him decide what to do.

But there were no revelations here. Not in three years of log entries. Only the same, endless, descending spiral of desire, always left unfulfilled. And a growing certainty that Spock could never feel this way for him. Spock, who felt every emotion with such solid intention. Spock, who could control the whims of his heart and the directions of his thoughts. Spock, who would never choose to love Jim, and so _could_ never love Jim.

Jim made his way to his computer chair, settled in his seat, and called up the screen listing every personal log from the last three years. “Computer, delete all personal logs,” he said softly, his chest tight.

One by one, he watched the recordings blink out of existence on his screen. He put his head in his hands, and sighed.

 

* * *

 

**40 years later:**

“I never told you about the logs, did I?” Jim asked with a little laugh, head resting against Spock’s shoulder. Spock turned, nuzzling his nose into Jim’s curls of graying hair, his arm tightening around Jim’s back. The moon glowed white through their bedroom window, and Jim wondered why his dozing thoughts had traced paths back to those lonely days.

Maybe because here, in this room, in the home he shared with the man he loved, Jim had never felt less lonely.

“The logs?” Spock asked, pulling away as Jim looked up into his eyes.

Jim grinned, his hand roaming up Spock’s chest, grazing that familiar hair, the familiar planes of Spock’s body. “My personal logs. The ones I kept during our first five-year mission. Did I ever tell you about them?”

Spock’s eyebrow lifted into the mussed line of his bangs. “I do not recall,” he said.

“Then I definitely didn’t tell you,” Jim chuckled. “You remember everything. I was just thinking about them -- the logs, I mean. I deleted them all somewhere around year three. It was a little pathetic.” Smiling with the recalled shame of youth, he turned his face into Spock’s shoulder, and Spock’s other hand came around to stroke his hair, as if soothing him.

“What did you discuss in these logs?” Spock asked, tilting Jim’s head back to look at him once more. The deep lines of age in Spock’s face were shadowed in the pale light of night, and he wore a tiny, imperceptible smile. Maybe he sensed in Jim that he could find it funny now. In retrospect. After all these years they had loved each other.

“I would talk about you,” Jim admitted without embarrassment. They were far past embarrassment now, the two of them. “How much I loved you. Why I loved you. What I planned to do about it.”

“You had plans?” Spock asked, suddenly surprised, and Jim laughed, lifting himself up on his elbow. Spock’s arms fell, no longer holding Jim close, but Jim could see him better this way.

“You know me,” Jim said. “I had _ideas_. They never quite turned into plans. Would you believe I was scared to tell you?”

“Never,” Spock said, his lips curled gently.

Jim shoved him playfully, laughing. “Well I was,” he said, “scared to death. Feels silly now, doesn’t it?”

Their eyes locked, and Jim brought a hand to Spock’s cheek, tracing the high lines of cheekbones that had been so enchanting when they first met. They were enchanting now.

“I … also kept logs,” Spock said softly, tilting his head into Jim’s hand. “About you.”

Jim’s eyes widened, uproarious glee filling his heart like a hot air balloon. “ _You_ , Spock?” he asked, knowing his smile might appear teasing. “My unemotional first officer kept logs about _me_?”

“Perhaps it is disingenuous to call it a log,” Spock said, and Jim ran his hand through Spock’s silver hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“What would you call it then, sweetheart?”

“A list.”

Jim snorted. Decisively, he settled back onto the mattress and pulled himself close to his husband under the covers once again, curling an arm posessively over Spock’s chest. “Tell me,” Jim said, because Spock remembered everything. And he would remember his list.

Spock paused for a moment, and Jim felt Spock’s fingers tugging almost absentmindedly at the curls of Jim’s hair.

“A list,” he quoted formally, slowly. “Untitled. Ongoing. Presented in no particular order.”

“None?” Jim interrupted. “Everything you do is ‘in a particular order.’”

The chest under Jim’s hand shook with the kind of small laugh Spock only allowed himself with his bondmate. “Ashayam, if you do not wish to hear the list…” Spock threatened, and Jim held him tighter.

“Of course I want to hear it,” Jim said. “Give me the full report, Mister Spock.” Spock’s lips found the crown of Jim’s head again, smiling just slightly where he pressed a kiss into Jim’s hair.

“One,” Spock whispered, “his ingenuity.” His breath was warm. “Two, his determination.” Jim’s heart clenched, realizing suddenly what this was. “Three, the lock of hair that curls where it falls on his forehead.” A list of what Spock loved about him. “Four, How he pats his stomach exactly three times after consuming a large meal.”

Jim laughed loudly with surprise, a bark of a thing, his cheeks flushing hot. When he lifted his smiling eyes, Spock’s whole expression had softened.

“Five,” Spock continued, voice gentler than before. Almost dreamlike. “His laugh.”

Jim’s grin widened and he leaned up, seeking Spock’s lips.

The kiss was given without any preamble, any pretense, any judgement or timidity. It was given freely, shared freely, and taken freely. Jim rolled closer to his husband, felt Spock’s hands roaming up and down his back, felt the warm wonderment of Spock’s affection flow over their bond like a stream in summer.

When they parted, their lips lingered close, the delicate moment hanging between them. “Captain’s personal log,” Jim said with a little smile, though he had not been a captain for many years. “My first officer is as much of a hopeless romantic as I am.”

“This cannot come as a surprise,” Spock said, and they met eyes, comfortable in each other’s gaze.

“I suppose not,” Jim conceded with a chuckle. “Now I have to ask, sweetheart. How many items were on this list of yours, when all was said and done?”

When Spock glanced away, Jim almost didn't trust the decades of familiarity that clued him into the movement’s meaning. He nearly refused to trust the emotion -- _embarrassment_ \-- he felt over their bond. “You never stopped adding to it, did you?” Jim asked, though he knew the answer just by looking at his husband.

Spock’s cheeks flushed green, noticeable even in the dim moonlight.

“I added item number 3,862 this morning,” he admitted. “Not including subcategories, of course.”

“Of … of course,” Jim echoed through his shock. He couldn't even _conceptualize_ nearly 4,000 unique reasons Spock loved him, when for so many years he had been unable to imagine one. Spock turned his eyes back to Jim’s, raised a hand to Jim’s face.

“Would you like to hear the rest of the list?” He asked, and Jim snorted, ducking his head against Spock’s hand.

“I don’t think we have the time,” Jim laughed, enjoying the warm glimmer in Spock’s eyes. “But may I ask what you added this morning?”

Spock pulled Jim back against him, his arms wrapped solidly around Jim’s comparatively  considerable girth. “3,862,” he began slowly. “When the sesame seeds fall off his bagel, he picks up each of them one-by-one and sprinkles them on the cream cheese.”

Grinning, Jim cuddled up close to Spock, nuzzling into his shoulder. He wanted to make a joke, wanted to tease Spock about the minuscule detail. But in the end it was the minuscule details he loved about Spock, too. And Spock’s unwavering dedication to those details. To him.

“Will you read me the list after all?” Jim asked, closing his eyes and sinking warm and comfortable into the mattress. “At least until I fall asleep.”

“Of course, Adun,” Spock said gently. And Jim listened with Spock’s gentle presence surrounding him. His gentle voice soothing in the familiar cadence he once used for delivering science reports, all those years ago.

“Six,” Spock said, “his legs crossed, ankle over knee. Seven, his compassion…” on and on, an endless list. Untitled. Ongoing. Of all the reasons Spock could never let him go.


End file.
